


Fraternity of the Maimed

by icarus_chained



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ableism, Aftermath of Torture, Aristocracy, Backstory, Friendship, Gen, Government Agencies, Monster Hunters, Original Fiction, Permanent Injury, Protectiveness, Spies & Secret Agents, Torture, Uneasy Allies, Urban Fantasy, Vampires, Victorian, Werewolf Culture, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 13:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15292059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: On the run from a vampire, Imogen Howe is brought to the Silver Birch estate and the company of werewolves by Abigail MacLachlann, an old werewolf herself and a hunter of some renown. The wolves here are meant to keep Imogen safe. There are reasons Abigail would trust them to do so, against anything and everything that might try their luck against them.





	Fraternity of the Maimed

Imogen hugged her cape close against her as their little horse and trap crested a broad hill and the full sweep of the Silver Birch estate opened up in front of them. She stared down at it apprehensively. It was a grand sort of place, to be sure, but grey and dreary looking, and the woods of the estate clung too close to the house for her liking. She was far too familiar these days with the sorts of things that could lurk beneath the trees.

Not that it could be helped. The things that lurked beneath the trees were the reason she was _here_. The amiable monster by her side had assured her more than once that there could be nowhere safer just now, and the nice useless idiots at the Bureau of Unnatural Occurrences hadn't seemed all that inclined to disagree.

Though what use a house of wolves was going to be against a vampire, she wasn't yet quite sure.

"Friendly looking place, isn't it?" Abigail sneered, grinning ferally down at the big house. "Grey and dull as the fields of purgatory themselves. Not that that's a bad thing, in itself. Not for you. You should count yourself lucky, lass. Six years ago it was much more exciting to look at, and much less good for your health."

Imogen shot a more than skeptical glance her way. Not that Abigail was bothered by it, ignoring her in favour of flicking the reins and setting them back off down the hill. Imogen wasn't surprised. The leathery old biddy wasn't bothered by much of anything, as far as she could tell from their short acquaintance so far. Then again, she was apparently a _werewolf_ , so perhaps that made sense. So far, the monsters in Imogen's life didn't seem to be upset by much at all. 

She wondered idly if this new pack of them would be any more so.

A few minutes later, they pulled off the road and through a gate onto the drive proper. Something moved on the far end of the lawn as they crunched onto the gravel. A few somethings. Three or four of them on either side, lurking just beneath the tall hedges and the edges of the trees. Grey bodies, though one or two darker ones. Not dogs. Far too large to be dogs. The hair rose on the back of Imogen's neck. 

"Take it easy, girl," Abigail cautioned, without looking at her. "We're expected guests. There's none here will raise a hand to us. Nothing wrong with a house taking a gander at who's come to beg them for aid. Be rude to expect otherwise."

The tone was hard, quelling, and Imogen shot a glance sideways at her in temper. That was all very well for _her_ to say! She wasn't the one being hunted, or cast without so much as a by-your-leave into the care and company of monsters! But Abigail turned to look at her, something steady and uncompromising in her grey eyes, and Imogen subsided, shame and despair flooding back in place of her anger. 

Monsters or not, they could still be hurt and killed. Abigail alone had more than enough scars to prove that. They could well be threatened by the evil of the thing Imogen was bringing to their door. If they chose to help her, at least. She nearly wouldn't blame them if they didn't. No one else she'd run to had stood half a chance against her oh-so-lordly pursuer.

They'd all been human, admittedly, and not exactly highly placed. All the friends she could claim had little enough chance against even just a lord, let alone a vampiric one. Rebecca's death and the Robertsons' eviction had proved that. Even Mr Wainthrope, her father's lawyer friend, had come back to her ashen and sweating and apologetic. There was no hope of solving this through normal channels. She'd learned that quickly, if not quite quickly enough. Monsters, it would seem, were her only hope.

That did not mean she was looking forward to being left alone among them. Abigail was a cold comfort at best, but at least she _was_ a comfort. These wolves were nothing but strangers to her.

A hand gripped her arm firmly, drawing her rather abruptly from her thoughts, and she snapped her head up to find the wolf woman looking at her. Not _gently_ , exactly, Imogen wasn't sure Abigail had much of _gentleness_ left in her, but without anger at least. Without censure. Abigail patted her arm once, roughly, and pulled her hand back.

"Don't worry so much," she said gruffly, as they pulled in around the front of the house and came to a gentle stop. "I told you, dear, these are friends. None will touch you in their care. They'll keep you right as rain while I see to your little problem for you. I'll swear it on every Bible in Scotland."

Imogen raised an eyebrow at her. "I didn't know you were a Christian," she said, but she found herself vaguely heartened anyway. Not by the oath, as such, but by the surety. In the scant couple of weeks she'd known the woman, she'd never once known Ms Abigail MacLachlann to balk at bald, flat truth, no matter how gruesome. She had to believe that a promise of safety from her was at the very least better informed than most.

Abigail snorted as she hopped down from the trap. "Not a day in my bleedin' life," she growled, but that feral grin was back on her face. She held her hand up for Imogen. "Come on, girl. Come meet some friends."

_Friends_. Given her demeanor, Imogen couldn't imagine Abigail had a lot of those. She had to hope, then, that the ones she _did_ have were good ones.

Or at the very least, tougher than Imogen's had proven to be.

***

They were shown into a handsome little study by a burly, broad-faced woman with shockingly golden eyes and a calm, steady look about her. 'Genna', apparently, no surname offered, though by her air of dignity and command Imogen was full sure she had a strong place in the household. She and Abigail had had a complete and silent conversation in the entryway, a story of reluctance and worry and sharp question and necessity told entirely in grimaces. Abigail had simply tipped her head towards Imogen at the close of it, as if she constituted explanation enough by her mere presence. 

Genna had sent a piercing glance her way, and then, while Imogen straightened stiffly and nervously in front of her, had softened thoroughly and a lot more abruptly than expected. Well. Than _Imogen_ had expected, anyway. Abigail had mostly looked smug. Genna'd glared at her half-heartedly for it, but had steered them along the hall to this study without anything else in the way of protest.

"Himself is waiting for you," she'd said, opening the door for them. "The other one's out on the lawn. I'm sure he'll be along shortly enough. Try not to piss him off straight out of the gate, if you can."

Abigail bared her teeth happily at her. "No promises," she said. "We'll see how the pup behaves, hmm?"

Genna shook her head in long suffering exasperation and chivvied them both into the study. "I suppose it's a good job you're seeing Silver first, then," she said, but more in amusement than real annoyance. "That way your girl might actually get some help before you spoil it for her, eh?"

"That's the plan," Abigail agreed, touching a hand to her forehead in ironic salute. "Tell his lordship he needn't wait around, though. I'm always happy to see him."

The door closed on Genna's snort, and warmly dubious "Oh, I'm _sure_ ".

And then there was only Imogen and Abigail, standing on the dark green carpet of a warm, masculine sort of room, and the slim figure of the man who'd turned from the bookshelves to study them.

He looked almost normal for a second. Only a second. It was only propriety and a certain surfeit of shocks lately that kept Imogen from gasping at the sight of him. He probably noticed the hitch in her breathing anyway. He looked the sort to pay attention that way. He didn't react, though, save to drift towards them instead and hold out his hands to Abigail.

"Hunter MacLachlann," he said, with a sort of sly amusement, and bowed his head over her rough knuckles. He didn't kiss them, Imogen noted faintly. The gesture was more a wry bow of respect than a flirtation. Abigail cackled, and responded much more overtly.

"My very fine Lord Silver," she grinned, and kissed him loudly on the mouth, and then more quietly, more carefully, on his maimed cheek. "Been a while. You're looking trim."

He smiled thinly at her. "Gregor's been taking me hunting lately. Four legged, on both ends. It's surprisingly diverting. He's been annoyingly smug about it."

Abigail barked a laugh. "Hah! He would be," she said. "It looks well on you, though. It's good to get out. I do remember that."

His smile flickered. "It is," he said quietly. "I've always been a better hunter on two legs, though. A pity we can't trade places."

Her smile turned lopsided in its turn, and she touched a finger lightly to his cheek. "Slings and arrows, dear," she said softly. "Not to worry. I'm not displeased with my current hunts. The best quarry is always standing on two legs and wearing an expensive suit, I find. So much more satisfying. Wouldn't you agree?"

He lifted a lip in agreement, and Imogen could see the wolf in him very clearly all of a sudden. It hadn't been immediately apparent before. He was a slim, neat sort of man, calmly and soberly dressed, and if it hadn't been for the great scar across his face she might have thought him some city clerk. The look in his eyes now, though, his _eye_ , was all wolf. Faced with it, his nature would not have surprised her at all.

He noticed her noticing. Well. He'd been aware of her from the start. He lifted his head and took a small step back from Abigail, turning to face her instead. Her breath caught slightly, and Abigail turned too. The wolf woman made no move to intervene, though. She let her Lord Silver approach Imogen at his leisure, and did not stop the hand he held gently out towards her. For a handshake, she managed to notice. Not anything else.

"Ms Imogen Howe, I assume," he murmured, as she let him take her hand. His grip was light and cool, a gentle touch before he let go again. "Forgive the impropriety. Matthew Wilkes, at your service."

Impropriety, he said. Between wolves at the door and Abigail every step of the way. But something else caught her before she could laugh at that.

"Wilkes?" she asked curiously. "Not Silver?"

His expression flickered. An odd, odd look, something dark and rueful and triumphant. Abigail cackled again behind him. Her smile was twisted and feral too, and the look she shot him was full of pride. He grimaced ruefully.

"Wilkes," he confirmed lightly. "Silver is more along the lines of a ... a nom de guerre, you might say. And I'm not a lord, either, at least by human definitions. The title was won by my position in Lord Gregor's pack. I apologise for the confusion. It seems I've been here long enough to have forgotten how strange the wolf laws are to outsiders."

Imogen blinked at him. She had ... no idea what to do with that, really. Though ... 'pure human'. What an odd thing to say.

Abigail snorted though. She prowled around him to stand at Imogen's side, sneering brightly at him. "Oh indeed," she said. "You've turned into a right wolf after all. But you're a Silver still. Not to worry. We'll make sure no one forgets it."

The corner of his mouth curled slightly, beneath his milky right eye. "Heaven forbid."

Imogen looked between them. On the one hand, she was alone in a house of wolves, dependent on them for protection. On the other hand, she was _curious_. It had ever been her best and worst trait, and was likely the reason she was in this mess to start with. And quite soon she _would_ be dependent on him. She'd rather like to learn something of him, that considered, and she was quite tired of cryptic utterances besides.

"What does that mean?" she asked. Looking at him, not Abigail, since he seemed slightly more inclined to answer. "What's a 'silver'?"

They glanced at each other, and Imogen was really beginning to wonder if the ability to read each other's thoughts by a look was a werewolf talent. This conversation was clear enough though. He queried, and Abigail nodded assent. He smiled and gestured them forwards towards a cluster of seats around a table.

"I suppose you've a right to ask, all things considered," he said easily. "Though it's only slightly pertinent here. Still. I'd have thought, since you travelled with Abigail, that you might already have an idea?"

Imogen gave him a speaking look of her own for that one, and Abigail leaned back against her chair in open delight.

"Now why would you think that?" she hummed teasingly. "Not everyone's as chatty as your lot, my Lord Silver. Have you ever known me to run my mouth, hmm?" But she relented, and looked towards Imogen again. "Put bluntly, girl, it's a curse name. Or a war name. Bad repute and all that. Silver kills wolves, you see. Puts wounds in them that can't heal. Call a wolf 'silver', you're calling him a wolf killer, and not a fair one. Not by teeth or claws, but by poison, you see? Our Lord Silver's name puts the frights up every wolf might challenge him, or his pack behind him. And it's a name he takes pride in."

That ... Her eyes were wide. Imogen knew they were. She wasn't quite sure what other reaction she was supposed to have to that, though.

"It's ... It's not quite as bad as it sounds," the Lord Silver himself interrupted gently. He glanced down, that strange triumphantly rueful expression once more on his face. "It's not quite as bad for me. I wasn't born wolf. I fought as a human first, so it's not considered quite as bad for me. I'm not quite 'proud' of it either. It's more that it's useful to me. Still. I wear the name as a statement. Let that never be in doubt."

Abigail harrumphed impatiently. "It's more than that by now," she growled pointedly, but shrugged and looked to Imogen again. "There's some things you've got to understand, girl. Or not, maybe, depends on how long you'll be here, but it might do you good to know. There's a reason I wanted you here. There's a reason I wanted him to keep you safe. Mostly, the fact that he _can_ , and that I trust that he _will_."

She leaned forwards, glared fiercely into Imogen's eyes, as if trying to impress the severity of her trust into her. Not that Imogen had planned to question it. She'd travelled with the wolf woman long enough to know just how few people she trusted at all. That had seemed sensible enough from the beginning. Imogen was less than a year into this hidden world of monsters and she'd already learned that herself. She'd already known what it meant that Abigail, of all people, had brought her here.

But still ...

"Does silver work on vampires too, then?" she asked tartly, and for some reason both of them smiled at her. Two very feral expressions.

"No," said Abigail bluntly. "But then, that's not the point. Your vampire's my problem, and I'll shortly be shoving several things that work very well into several of his orifices. Don't worry about that one. But your problem wasn't only that he's a _vampire_. Your problem's that he's also a _lord_. And on _that_ field, there's no finer answer than my Lord Silver over here." She paused and shrugged a bit. "And his Lord Idiot as well, I suppose. Alphas have to be good for something."

"So glad to hear it," another voice rumbled from the doorway, and Imogen jumped slightly in her seat. The two wolves beside her barely batted an eye, though Lord Silver did at least send an apologetic grimace her way. Abigail was too focused on the newest entrant to their conference.

He was a tall man, young, and strongly built. Imogen didn't so much notice that as have it shoved in her face. The way he moved, the prowl of it, let it be known to all and sundry that here was a strong, athletic man. A fencer, maybe. A fighter. He moved over to their cluster of chairs and looked down at them, and the roll of his presence dominated the room.

Or ... perhaps not. It dominated _her_ , made something inside her instinctively lower her gaze, but Lord Silver seemed largely unperturbed, and Abigail deliberately sprawled backwards in challenge for him. Her smile went sharp and feral and lazy, and she tipped her chin up as if to deliberately taunt him with her throat. There was something in the air, something almost like a smell, and Imogen felt ... that Abigail was _covering_ her, somehow. That something of Abigail had settled itself around her like a blanket, and dared this new wolf to try and damage it.

And the new wolf, in counterpoint, moved to stand behind Lord Silver's chair, rest a hand on his shoulder, and claim _him_ by the same measure.

For his part, Imogen couldn't help but notice, Matthew Wilkes looked mostly long suffering.

"Ms MacLachlann," the new wolf rumbled, inclining his head the barest inch in her direction. "So nice to see you again. It's been too long."

The implication being, of course, that it hadn't been nearly long enough.

"Gregor," Abigail smiled back, showing all her teeth, some of them a little bit more pointed than usual. "Always lovely to see you. I can always count on your warm welcome, hmm?"

"Don't worry," Silver said softly, just for Imogen. She glanced at him, and he smiled at her. "They'll be all right. They just despise each other."

Imogen breathed a laugh. "Oh, is that all?" He grinned.

"That's all," he agreed. "Politics, you know. Professional disagreements. That sort of thing. Nothing to worry about."

Oh, well _then_ , Imogen thought. And the others agreed with her.

" _Politics_ , he says," Abigail snorted disbelievingly.

"Professional disagreements," Lord Gregor agreed sourly. "Only that, of course. Nothing to do with how you're a disagreeable old hag at all." She beamed sharply back at him.

"And nothing to do with how you're an impulsive idiot pup, either. Yes indeed."

Lord Silver laughed softly. He turned to Imogen again, and waved his hand between them. "They used to work together," he said. "Both of them worked for the Bureau once upon a time, you see. Gregor was one of their better field agents, and Abigail ... well. Much as she is now, she was something of their line of last resort. If they met in the field, it was generally because someone had mucked something up spectacularly and left Gregor in the middle of it. This was well before my time, you understand, but I gather it didn't leave the best impression on either end."

His Lord Gregor scoffed darkly. "That's one way to put it," he muttered. Abigail only tipped her chin up more.

"For sure," she agreed. "It doesn't mention our pack disagreements either. But that's not much your worry, dear. Though it might explain a thing or two."

The atmosphere soured. Tense as it had been before, it had been largely teasing. Now, not quite so much. She'd said that in earnest. Lord Gregor _flinched_ , and even Lord Silver sobered rapidly. In his case, not worried, though. Only tired and sad.

It was Abigail who carried on, seeming to take their silence as agreement, or at least permission. She'd sobered all the way, and when she turned to Imogen there was that hard, uncompromising thing in her eyes again. The thing that had convinced Imogen from the start that here was someone who might actually be able to help her. The thing that had appeared every time they'd been threatened since, and the thing that Imogen had turned to almost unconsciously since the first time she'd seen it.

This thing wasn't Abigail, you see. It was Hunter MacLachlann, the line of last resort.

"Listen up, girl," she said quietly. "I'm telling you this in earnest. I'm giving you to these boys while I sort your problem out, and I'm doing that for a reason. I've every reason in the world to despise this pack's Alpha, and I'm sure he's reasons enough to despise me too, but none of that matters a jot when it comes to you. If they promise to keep you safe, they'll keep you safe, and I'll believe that to my last breath. You're worried to be here, I know that, but you don't have to be. That's why I'm telling you this. All right?"

Imogen nodded mutely. The other two were silent. Dead silent, the Lord Silver sitting still and fierce, the Lord Gregor's hand on his shoulder. They let Abigail speak. They didn't protest. Abigail leaned back and carried on.

"Gregor and I met Silver six years ago," she said. "Back when the Birches wasn't quite so pleasant as it is now. There'd been a slow shift in the area over time, old packs being taken over by newer, more violent blood. There was trouble brewing, and suggestions of everything from mild treason against the human government to a full-blown rebellion in the works against the old Wolf Lines. It was bad. So, we sent Gregor in to figure out just _how_ bad. With me so far?"

Imogen nodded again, and glanced at Lord Gregor. He looked away, grimacing faintly. It very clearly wasn't a happy subject for him. She looked at Lord Silver, too, but his expression was perfectly smooth and utterly imperturbable. Imogen frowned, and looked back at Abigail.

Who smiled at her, thin and dark. "It wasn't fun for them, girl, you're right there. About three months in, Gregor basically vanished. Bureau was getting all geared up to send me down after him, when he suddenly sent word back, that he was all of a sudden alpha of one of the worst of the packs, and had word of a meet where he could take the rest of them down. Out of the blue, after weeks of silence. So of course, I got sent down. Don't know what I thought I'd find. Don't know how I expected him to have mucked up. But he hadn't. For once in his life, he hadn't. He'd gotten himself shanghaied instead."

"I did just fine, you know," Lord Gregor said, but softly. Oddly, his hand light and heavy on Lord Silver's shoulder. "I usually did just fine. This time I was just going up against something I wasn't expecting. Something I couldn't in good conscience fight."

Lord Silver wasn't looking at him. Or at Abigail. He was looking at Imogen, and the expression on his maimed face was placid and mild.

"Silver played him like a fiddle," Abigail said softly. "He played the whole damn game like a fiddle. He could have killed a good half dozen of those bastards in their sleep with a silver knife, but they'd have killed him for it, and they'd have ripped his pack to shreds behind him afterwards. Oh yes, it's his pack. Has been from the first. Gregor's only here because Silver needed an Alpha that they'd respect long enough to let him move. He needed a big, swaggering idiot to take power by tooth and claw while he lined them up for the short, sharp drop. And he got him. The biggest swaggering idiot you ever saw, wandering right into the middle of it."

"He treated my family right," Matthew Wilkes interrupted softly. Gently and precisely. "He fought like one of them, as strong and as powerful as the worst of them, but he treated the rest of us right. Genna, Dorothy. Peter and Lena. I'd never have chosen him if I couldn't have trusted him even just for the interim. I needed someone I could trust until I'd at least killed the worst of them and discredited the rest." He smiled softly. "It wasn't all swaggering idiocy. Though it helped, when he still had to challenge the old Alpha."

Gregor's hand _clenched_. Clenched tight around his shoulder. Imogen was surprised the joint didn't creak under the abuse. Silver's expression never flickered, though.

"Bastard needed to die," the Alpha whispered. Not growled, _whispered_ , and only more visceral for it. Imogen leaned back in her seat, leaned into Abigail's shielding presence away from him. Lord Gregor didn't appear to notice.

"Yes, well," Abigail said, cutting through his aura wryly. "By the time I showed up, it was mostly mop up, and figuring out just what the Bureau was going to do with an uppity beta who'd just essentially kidnapped and suborned one of their best agents. Using the term loosely, of course."

Gregor shot her a look, but it wasn't the low snipe he was concerned with. Hadn't been for a few minutes now. It was still Lord Silver he was shielding.

"You'd not have touched him," he said, and _this_ was a growl. Low and warning. "None of you. I'd not have let any of you touch a single one of them. Oath or no damn oath!"

Abigail snorted, and Silver closed his eyes in his chair, a tiny smile on his lips. 

"We figured that out, yes," she said shortly, shaking her head at him. "You were wrapped around his finger from the first. I'd damn you for a warlock, Silver, if I didn't know precisely where you'd come from. But I figure you know that too."

He smiled, and reached up to gently pry his Alpha's hand out of his shoulder. Lord Gregor blinked, seemingly to finally realise what he was doing, and flinched back in apology. Silver ignored that, patting his hand soothingly while he looked at Abigail.

"I had you wrapped as well," he noted wryly. "Don't lie, Abigail. You liked me from the moment I told you to shut up and wait until I'd all my people in order, my idiot alpha included."

Abigail sneered brightly at him. "I do like a man who can bully those above him just as soundly as those against him, right enough," she agreed, and then shrugged, and answered the question more seriously. "I knew you, though. Not the specifics, but I knew you. Like knows like. I knew you for one of mine."

Silver dipped his head, that bright-dark expression on his face, and Abigail turned to Imogen one more time. Imogen, oddly breathless, listened.

"We've a lot in common, Lord Silver and I," the old wolf woman said quietly. "We came at the thing from opposite ends, and arrived more or less in the same place. I was a wolf captured, tortured and crippled by a human hunter, and he was a human captured, turned and maimed by wolves. We might have hated each other, but his people abandoned him as well, the government he worked for disavowing all knowledge of him and shipping him off to hell, while my pack ..." 

She slowed and looked lazily at Lord Gregor. Who flinched, once again, and looked away.

"Let's just say," Abigail said, "wolves don't look kindly on cripples. Especially those marred by silver, too maimed to transform. Certain ... _old fashioned_ packs hold to the view that it's better to kill such a wolf than let them live as a half thing. A mercy, you see. No matter the wolf herself's views to the contrary. My pack was one such. Lord Gregor's here, the pack he was born to, was another. You can thank our Lord Silver for changing his mind on that one. A bit too late for me, but I'm sure he's glad enough of it himself."

Matthew Wilkes looked up at her, the ragged claw marks on his cheek and through the milk white of his right eye stark against his skin. He was still calm, though. Rueful and serene.

"Sometimes it takes a scarring thing to wake us up," he said softly. "I scarred him, Abigail. I'm not sure that's a thing to be thanking me for."

"No," said Lord Gregor, if only softly. He looked down at him, something Imogen hadn't means to read in his expression. "It is. I do. If not for you ... I do thank you for it." He tried a smile. "Sometimes hate you as well, of course. For bringing angry old women into my house, if nothing else. But I do thank you as well. I ... needed to see."

"See what?" Imogen asked quietly. Whispering herself, hushed and enthralled by the lot of them. They looked at her, and the two lords deferred to Abigail once more.

"My Lord Silver let his old Alpha scar him," Abigail explained. Her voice was as close to gentle as Imogen thought it ever got, out of respect, but beneath it was a dark, feral thread of fury and admiration. "To set up Gregor's challenge, to keep his pack safe, to arrange things to his liking and line his enemies up for the slaughter. He had silver in his pocket. He could have killed that bastard where he stood. But he stood there instead and let that thrice damned monster rip his eye from his head so that Gregor would have a chance to do the thing properly. Challenge him, fair and square, and beat him the way _wolves_ respect. So that Gregor could take and hold his pack, and keep them safe, while Matthew put the pieces in place to slaughter the rest of their enemies of a piece. He let himself be maimed, and it was _incidental_. A demonstration of nothing but his commitment. Because human or wolf there's no damned reason to lie down and die, and neither man nor woman needs two skins nor all their working parts to _rend their enemies from the earth_."

That thing in the air, that smell or presence, _hammered_ out of her, fearsome and savage, and somehow none of them flinched from her. Not even Lord Gregor, suddenly dwarfed by her, and not Imogen either. Not even alone, a human among monsters. There was something savagely feral in Abigail MacLachlann in that moment, and Imogen _did not flinch_.

Because it was, after all, on her side, and in this moment there was never such a darkly triumphant notion in all the world.

"They'll keep you safe, my dear," the wolf woman said softly, grinning a wolf's grin with that steady, uncompromising thing in her eyes. "Let your leech lord in all his glory bring every trick and force he has to bear, mystic, political, or otherwise. I'll bet on my Lord Silver to beat him any day of the week. He wears his name honestly these days. Every man or wolf who's ever laid a hand on one of his has died for it. None shall touch you in their care, my dear. And your vampire, in the meantime, shall answer to me."

"None who hunted her survived it either," Lord Gregor interrupted softly. Avoiding Abigail's eyes as he said it, looking only at Imogen. "Even when she was freshly wounded. Even when her own Alpha sent his best after her, to give her the 'mercy' of death. She fought every last one of them to a standstill, and more than to one to the death, and she was bleeding still and riddled with silver. She killed the hunter who maimed her, and she killed wolves who tried to judge her, and she's only gotten worse since then. When none of the rest of us will do, that's when the Bureau sends her. I don't know how you managed to acquire her, or who the hell your vampire is to justify sending her against him, but either way. It's unlikely you'll have to worry about him much longer." 

Imogen didn't answer for a long moment. She couldn't. Her voice wouldn't come. It sounded so strange when it finally emerged. Scratchy and distant.

"I don't know either," she said. "I went to them for help. He killed Rebecca. My best friend. He killed her, and he was coming for me, and they wouldn't do anything. And then this ... this _aggravating old biddy_ ..."

The two lords were very abruptly straight-faced. _Extremely_ straight-faced. But Abigail took no offense whatsoever. She grinned instead, and reached over to take Imogen's hand in hers.

"I knew you for one of mine," she said, with that feral, too-pointed edge to her smile. "Scarred too, aren't you? Inside more than out, but scarred nonetheless. You may be human, my dear, but you're one of mine. The fraternity of the maimed, and hell to all who challenge us. What say you?"

And for some reason, Imogen found that she didn't have to consider it for very long at all.

"I think," she said, "that in defiance of every fairy tale I've ever read ... I find myself very glad to be among wolves."

They glanced at each other. One of those speaking werewolf silences. "You may change your mind about that," said Lord Silver, softly and wryly, but not in earnest. Imogen didn't think he really meant it. He'd been among wolves too long himself. It seemed, she thought, to be a contagious sort of mindset.

Though perhaps that was not wolves. Perhaps that was simply the company they kept. The care and company of monsters, and those who had survived their best efforts. Perhaps it was simply as Abigail said. 

The fraternity of the maimed.


End file.
